No Escape by luvtwilight4eva
by Bad Boys of Twilight
Summary: Before going down the road called revenge, dig two graves.


**Title of Story: No Escape**

**Rating: M**

**Pairing: Bella/Edward**

**Genre: Crime/Drama/Tragedy**

**Word Count: 7, 195 (wordcounttool dot com)**

**Story Summary: Before going down the road called revenge, dig two graves.**

**Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

Mountain Top—a bar and eatery that sat 1,500 feet from its spot at the pinnacle of St. Peter Mountain—was famous for two things: its prime view of Magens Bay with its white sands and cerulean water, as well as, its world-renowned banana daiquiri.

Both brought ship loads of tourists to the bar in the summer months and just as much during the Christmas through New Year's season.

A man enters, walking a determined path toward what he'd come to consider _his _stool. It was mid-week, around the time the regulars who frequented the bar went home to their families. He was the lone person in the bar, except the bartender heard underneath, re-arranging and checking the night's stock.

While businesses and locals were grateful for the influx of money the active tourism industry brought, most were just as glad when the season ended and life on their insular island returned to normal. Here, names may not be known, but faces were easily identifiable. So, a new face always raised suspicion.

He knocked on top of the distressed wood to get his favorite server's attention. He came to the establishment to unwind from his 'complicated' days, flirt with a few of the bar's workers, and quietly pass the time that was now his life. The man sniggered when he thought about his easy days lampooning as a tour guide.

His former job could truly be considered demanding, and posed more liabilities than benefits. When he'd found himself dragging his feet at the thought of doing the tasks he'd once relished, he knew it was time to call it quits. It took a while, but he'd finally convinced his boss to allow him to retire. He still had to check in from time to time, but he was going into his sixth year of retirement and he believed he'd made the best decision of his life. He'd even found a replacement that was better suited than he ever was.

He shook his head, bringing himself back to the present while wiping the tiredness from his face, so his relaxation could begin.

"What can I get you?" A low, husky, female voice inquired, interrupting his thoughts.

"Where's Kate?" A masculine eyebrow arched upward.

_Well, fuck, you're a rude son of a bitch_ she thought, giving him a bitch brow in response. The corner of the right side of his lips lifted, ever so slightly, before turning back down into a guarded expression. The switch was so fast; she'd have missed it if she hadn't been born with eagle eyes.

"No Kate, just me." She swiped the dishrag on top of the worn, brown countertop to give herself something to do. "So, what can I get you?"

He took his time looking over the woman … no, not quite a woman yet, but close. She looked no more than twenty years old. Straightened, midnight black hair dusted past her shoulders and framed an oval face that had high cheekbones and natural, feline-like eyes the color of molten pewter. Her lips, though pulled into a smirk at the moment, were—_thankfully_—not medically enhanced, and he imagined what their full poutiness around his burgeoning hard-on would be like.

_Stop it _he mentally chided himself. She's a child.

She moved, doing something mundane, and his gaze, having a mind of its own and uncaring about her age, swept over her body. She had a full figure: more than a handful of generous breasts that were pert and high, as well as an extremely cuppable ass, that when she turned sideways, bubbled out invitingly from her skin-tight jeans.

"Are you done eye fucking me or do you need another minute, old man?" Her snide words were accompanied with a cheeky laugh.

His hearty chuckle teased the bartender's ears. His head, graced with thick, shoulder-length, red-orange hair, was thrown backward. There were small laugh lines that crinkled the corner of his eyes, making her guess he was nearing forty. Though closed now, she'd tucked away in her memory how they'd danced between varying hues of greens like a piece of malachite jewelry. He stood at least another seven inches above her five feet eight inch frame. He was lean, broad shouldered, and cut—if the straining biceps under his thin shirt were any indication.

The laughter quickly died as his eyes reopened and looked at the person in front of him. It'd been a long time since he'd laughed that way, uninhibited and carefree. Despite herself and the motto she'd embedded in her heart so long ago, she found herself seduced by the edgy, mysterious sound that also hinted he was a smoker.

"Yeah, I'm done eye fucking you." The smirk he wore told her he was unashamed and didn't apologize easily or frequently. "Let me get a rum and Coke."

"Not a banana daiquiri?" she teased.

"Do I look like a fucking tourist?" His voice was coarse and she tingled at the slight accent she thought she heard.

"You know what they say: looks can be deceiving." She turned from him to retrieve a glass. "So Cruzan rum then?"

When she gazed at him through the mirrored backdrop wall, she was greeted with a lazy grin and another pitched eyebrow. "What else?" Seeing the unmistakable bottle in her hands, he leaned toward her as she held the bottleneck. "I love the grip you have."

Liquor fixed, she slid him the dark, amber-tinted drink.

His stare and words were direct.

She decided to do the same. "Are you hitting on me, old man?" She couched her inquiry inside her own grin.

She watched him take an appreciative gulp of the brown liquid. "The name's Anthony, little girl." He took another swig, using his eyes to strip her bare of the tight outfit James, the owner of Mountain Top, made the girls wear. "And, yes, I'm hitting on you." This time his chuckle, long and rich, wasn't abbreviated.

Her skin became overheated. Flames of desire licked her from head to toe, settling between the juncture hidden by her thighs, and reminded her it'd been too long since her pussy had felt a dick.

"I am _not_ a little girl."

She'd just celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday missing the one person who would have made sure there was cake and balloons, instead of the gun she'd held to her head, playing Russian roulette.

"Uh-huh."

The syllabled-words clearly said he didn't believe her, silently issuing a challenge. Not one to back down, her decision was made hastily. She hopped over and sat on top of the bar, pulled him to her, sloshing his drink to and fro in the whiskey glass, then kissed him. Effortlessly, their lips fused together as if their meeting was pre-destined. He dragged her closer, so her legs were on either side of him. His large hands made their way from her jean-clad calves to her toned thighs. Her fingers traced the contours of his shoulder blades and found themselves threading through his hair.

Anthony and the bartender were neither shy nor stupid. They knew they looked good. Truthfully, they both enjoyed, and were comfortable with, the attention their physique attracted. They were both accustomed to dominating their sexual partners. Anthony chose only to come after he'd positioned a woman on her hands and knees into a doggie style while the bartender came the hardest when she fucked a man into submission while on top.

One would think the two weren't compatible because they preferred, sexually and otherwise, to be in control. But, as soon as their lips touched, something ignited in their bellies. Passion—so fierce and strong; so new and unique—hit them both, leaving them in a hazy, drunken state.

She was the first to pull back; covering her mouth with shaky hands as perplexed eyes looked into Anthony's satisfied ones. It took her longer than she cared to admit—and probably would never scrutinize the reason—to get herself together and don her mask. "Still think I'm a little girl, Tony?"

He palmed her ass, dragging her closer to him as he stood. "No Tony, no Tonio, or any shit like that." He shook his head. "I'm simply Anthony, and you're …"

_This is it_ she thought as she remembered the only reason she was so far from her birth country, and in St. Thomas, one of the four islands that were part of the hot as fuck, U.S Virgin Islands.

A whispery sigh left her parted lips. "Marie."

＊＊＊＊＊

The incessant ringing woke Anthony from his sleep.

Since moving to St. Thomas six months ago, he'd gotten the best sleep he _ever_ had in his life. He knew whoever was calling at this ungodly hour had to be important. He had no living relatives, so there was no doubt that the call had to be from his other 'family' in New York.

He grabbed the pre-paid cellular phone sitting on top of the nightstand. Those he associated with preferred the burners, as they were known, because they were cheap, secure, and easily disposable.

He got the sleep out of his voice then placed the device to his ear. "Yeah?"

There was no need to identify himself. Anthony knew whoever was on the other end intended to call him and had a specific reason to do so.

"_This isn't good."_

Anthony sat up straighter as the last sleepy residue left him, hearing the voice of Marcus Falcone. Marcus was the youngest man to become consigliere to one of the largest mob outfit that made up the tri-state area's Five Families. Anthony knew the only reason for a call to him _had_ to be a request of his specialty.

He wracked his brain where this assignment would take him.

"You know I'm retired."

The man on the other end laughed.

It was eerie and reminded Anthony why he was also named Smokey. The consigliere looked more like a college professor stuck in the 1970s, than the thirty-one year old, unrepentant killer he was. He wore only tweed suits no matter the temperature, and sported thick, black-rimmed glasses. Many had tried to get him to update his wardrobe or maybe at least consider undergoing corrective surgery for his eyesight, but he was always quick to refuse. His ruse worked because Marcus' cunning was hidden under his unassuming appearance.

"_Are you six feet under?"_

Anthony snorted an answer while preparing himself for the cold, hard truth he was about to hear.

"_We don't do retirements. Need I remind you, the words used were semi-retirement and was bullshit then as it is now."_

Marcus' last statement reminded Anthony about the oath he'd taken when he'd turned eighteen years old even if he wasn't as active as he once was.

The phone shifted on the other end as Anthony got off the bed and walked toward his closet.

"Give it to me."

"_Have you been under a god damn rock or something?"_ A hand slammed down onto something hard. _"__Aren't there any fucking newspapers where you are?"_

Marcus had too many things to accomplish before the day ended, and cleaning up his boss' foolhardy decision of letting Anthony go was at the very top of his list. He'd already put everyone on alert, increased security, and ferreted the one person that needed to disappear into a safe house. Now, he needed his ace in the hole to come through and do what only he did best.

Anthony wisely kept his mouth closed, knowing that he had to tread carefully.

"_Ace, we're under attack. You've been MIA for the last six months and not checking in as I've told you to."_ Marcus angrily monologued. _"__All of our capos are gone."_

Anthony knew Marcus used his nickname to pull him back in.

Ace was a hit man; cunning, sharp, and ruthless to the bone.

Anthony was a nobody; a made up name he'd latched onto when he'd landed in St. Thomas.

Ace was an expert with guns, hand-to-hand combat, and hiding bodies.

Anthony gave tour guides around the island and played poker every Wednesday night with a few locals he'd met at Mountain Top.

Ace knew how to fool coroners about time of death by freezing a person's body. Ace knew only killing.

Marcus' strategy worked.

It'd been years since Ace had shown his face, but he was always there, lurking in the shadows.

Anthony exhaled as he switched personas. "You never looked into that shit?"

Marcus chuckled when he heard the change in tone and got down to the messy business. _"__We did. But, whoever was behind it was damned good. One died while getting his cock sucked. Another died after a private lap dance. And, god damn Aro was found with a strap-on dick up the ass."_

Anthony shivered in disgust, at the last revelation. He'd always known something was off with Short Fuse, as he'd been nicknamed.

"_No one thought anything of those deaths. They died weeks apart, but we all knew those assholes loved anything with a skirt on, so …"_

"It must've been a hit."

He pulled out his suitcase, throwing clothes inside.

"_It wasn't until Carlucci was washed up on the shores of the East River—"_

"Are you telling me Junior is dead, and I'm just hearing this shit?" His voice rang loud in the one-bedroom apartment.

Carlisle "Junior" Carlucci was the mob boss who controlled New York and New Jersey. Anthony had thought he'd a lot of potential. The day he took the reins from his father, he'd made promises of change and greatness for everyone connected to the Carlucci name.

But, the change he'd began instituting didn't sit well with Anthony, who'd been Junior's consigliere. The 'beginning of the end' occurred about ten years ago, in a small brownstone in Brooklyn on a cold Friday night. It was then he was hit with the solid truth that Junior was veering away from traditions that Anthony respected and held true.

After that, there'd been many heated exchanges, loud and gregarious over a two-year period before Anthony had willingly stepped down from being Carlucci's right hand man. He went back to being the simple killer he was while Marcus, a former capo, quietly assumed Anthony's spot.

Anthony rarely thought of that colossally fucked up night and silently told himself to stay in the moment.

Needless to say, hearing of Junior's death still left a bitter taste. He'd shared laughs, gotten assignments from, paid tribute to the mafia boss when he'd been a capo himself, and much more. Anthony had pledged fealty to the Carluccis, and to learn its leader was now dead by the hands of some bitch, re-ignited his sense of loyalty.

Anthony growled out his question, again, about Junior's death; he needed more information in order to help him understand.

Marcus answered, and this time his tone was calmer even though the breath blown out was one of frustration and hinted of weariness. "Not Junior, Ace. It was Jasper's body that washed up."

Jasper was the underboss and Junior's brother.

Anthony couldn't find the words. He struggled with what was shared.

"_Is this connection secure?"_

Anthony knew he was asking if their phone connection was untraceable. "I'm on a fucking burner! It's the same number I gave to Jasper about two weeks ago."

A sigh left Marcus' lips as he vacillated on whether to reprimand Ace for his disrespect or simply let it slide. Marcus sensed the other's frustration, but he needed the expertise that only Anthony had. Ever the strategic planner, the consigliere chose the latter and began bringing Ace up to speed.

"_Two weeks ago, Jasper left to meet up with Mangano's underboss but never showed up for the meeting. The last time Jasper was seen was checking into a motel. We sent out a search party; even spoke to Emmett Mangano, but nada. Nothing fucking turned up 'til just now."_

The Manganos ran Philadelphia. Demetri was the boss while his brother, Emmett, served as his underboss. Two capos and a handful of others made up their borgata. The Manganos were few in numbers when compared to the Carluccis, but the two families had been long-time partners in the profitable heroin trade—both families' main source of income.

"What the fuck is going on in New York, Marcus?"

First, the capos and now, an underboss.

_This smelled of an inside job or maybe some prick from the outside was trying to take over Junior's operations_ Antony silently concluded as he waited for the consigliere's assessment_._

"_We're under attack! That's what the hell is going on. Jasper's head washed up on the shore with a single, lipstick-shaped kiss on the cheek, and his eyes gouged out."_

"Are you saying some broad is behind this shit?"

"_I don't know who is behind anything."_

"Fuck!" Anthony's voice turned cold as he began mentally planning the imminent death of this mystery person. He'd enjoy every second of this kill. "I'm packing now."

"_Slow down. I'm sending you a picture. It's blurry as hell, but the hotel guy told us that there was a woman with Jasper the night he was there. Blond hair, tall, and he said she had amazing tits. She had a tattoo on her shoulder." _

Anthony considered telling Marcus that almost everyone had tattoos these days as it was more of the in thing to do rather than being symbolic. When Junior had risen to power, every soldato and capo had to have the Carlucci-crested tattoo placed over their heart to signify their allegiance.

Anthony heard the fax machine and ran toward his desk. Still being fed through the machine, Anthony saw the grainy picture. From what was coming out, the hotel lobby looked seedy and not a place Jasper would've chosen.

"Why would he go to a rat-infested motel like this shit hole?"

"_That is the god damn million dollar question, Ace. He was supposed to check into the Four Seasons Hotel in Philly, but …"_

The fax finally came through, and Marcus was right. The image was distorted and Anthony was only able to make out the woman's thick, plump lips. He'd bet her red hair and dark chocolate-coated eyes were fake.

"Got it."

"_Ace, be on the first flight out tonight from wherever the fuck you're holed up."_

He nodded his head even though Marcus couldn't see him. Before he ended the call, he had to ask a question. "Where's Junior now?"

The hesitation he heard from Marcus cut him deeply, as if Anthony couldn't be trusted. As if he was an outsider.

"_He's safe."_

Anthony plopped down in his chair as his fingers pulled up the airline website. He told Marcus he'd arrive at John F. Kennedy airport two o'clock in the morning.

Thinking about the shit storm brewing, he thought of the one person who'd haunted his dreams since their meeting, and decided he'd like to have her face be the last he saw in St. Thomas. Anthony knew once he boarded the plane, the island would never be somewhere he'd be able to live or visit.

"_Good."_ There was a breathy pause, weighted by information the other seemed unwilling to, but needed, to share. _"__There's something else."_

"What now?"

"_There was a pho—"_

"What the hell is up with all these pictures and shit?"

"_Shut up and listen. It's black and white with a kid and a pregnant woman."_

His mind boggled about the people in the new picture. Anthony thought it was strange, but knew that this was most likely the killer's calling card. Someone was daring the Carluccis to play a round of 'catch me if you can', and it didn't sit well with Anthony.

"_The kid."_ There was a sigh; almost painful. _"__It's a girl, looks no more than fourteen or so years old. They both look so damn innocent, but you know shit can be deceiving. On the back of it, there is a message."_

The laugh, bordering on slight hysteria, came from Anthony's gut as he thought of the person's gall in hunting down his family.

He didn't want to ask, but knew it was important. "What the fuck did the nut job say?"

"_On the back of the photo, it said: I'm coming for you."_

Not having any more to share, Marcus grunted which signaled the end of the call.

Anthony threw the phone on the opposite wall, watching as it crashed and then slid to the floor. The hammer he kept behind his office door was used to smash the device to black bits and internal parts as he imagined it was the psychopath's head that murdered the family he'd taken a blood oath with.

＊＊＊＊＊

"You're right on time; the guys are around the back." Marie neatly folded the last dishrag and ducked under the ledge of the bar in order to leave.

Anthony had another three hours before he needed to head to the airport. It had been two weeks since he first he laid eyes on her. Every day, they'd made it a ritual to flirt outrageously with each other. So much so, that the regulars swore they were together and visitors rooted for them, enjoying their sexually filled banter.

"No poker for me tonight."

That stopped Marie.

The finality she heard in his statement made her heart pick up its rhythm. On Wednesdays, the bar closed early, at 6 PM for the poker game, and he'd always watched Marie walk by him, wishing he'd get over himself and throw caution to the wind.

She looked over her shoulder at him; the silhouette of a colored ink peeked through her thin shirt. "And why is that?" Lust and hope rolled off her lush lips and ripe body in waves.

He stood, slowly walking to where she waited for him. He trailed a finger along her jawline, taking in her thick hair and unusual eyes as he wondered, again, why she seemed so familiar.

"Because I'm taking you up on your offer."

Her laugh was innocently sexy, a feat she'd practiced many times before mastering it at eighteen.

"Coming home with me, old man?" she asked, winking at him.

He bent low to her ear. "I'm going to fuck you silly, little girl."

They both left the bar, neither one responding to James' loud call for Anthony to play at least one hand. Marie jumped into her car, and Anthony followed closely behind. They drove past city limits, going up into hilly territory toward a part of the island Anthony had never explored. Ever the planner, Anthony looked around and noted there wasn't another house in sight. There seemed to be only one way out from Marie's home, which was down the unpaved dirt path they'd just driven up.

Their cars rolled to a stop and he saw Marie exit, looking at him quizzically. He decided to leave his gun in the car since he still hadn't figured out how he'd get it on the plane with him.

His head circled the outdoor. "This is you?"

She ran to him, and he caught her.

"This is me," she responded then angled her head for a kiss.

Their kiss was rushed.

It'd been weeks of nonstop, off-the charts, back and forth sexual teasing filled with risqué innuendos about what they'd do to each other if they were ever alone. Anthony walked the two steps that led to the bamboo landing and butted her against the door. His lips attached themselves to her neck while she tried to get a good grip on his the edge of his shirt.

"The door is open," she breathed out when she felt his hesitation in bringing her further inside.

Her home was a large, open room with a king-sized bed against a wall. He wasted no time in walking her over to it and throwing her down. Taking the lead, Marie lifted her hands, removing her shirt then unsnapping her bra. She cocked a brow, challengingly, at him.

He admired her ballsy attitude. He toed off his shoes, slipping down his cargo shorts revealing he'd came prepared since he was already naked.

Marie grinned. "You're a cocky motherfucker, old man." She unbuttoned her jeans. "How'd you know I'd say yes?"

He watched as she struggled out of the jeans, leaving on the black thong. He licked his lips at the way her body moved and swayed on the bed.

Taking off his T-shirt, he replied, "Because you'd never be able to pass all this up." Cock in hand, he gave the thick appendage a few strokes and waited for her next move.

Her eyes flitted over his body, saw the tattoo of a crest over his heart, drifted past his toned stomach muscles then quickly skipped over the keloid scar on his left thigh. His approach to the bed was measured, admiring her beauty and self-confidence.

"You're fucking gorgeous."

Getting on her knees, she took off her panties while walking on her knees over to him.

"I know," she smirked, trailing her hand over the hardened planes that were unforgiving, just the way she liked her men.

As their bodies met, he had no idea what he wanted to do to her first. And, just when he made his decision, she moved to her right, going inside the night stand drawer.

"Can't do anything without these." She smiled, shaking a strip of condoms.

Pushing them away, they landed on the bed as he trapped her slender hands above her head, willing them to stay. His hot lips peppered kisses along her neck, tasted her pebbled nipples, licked her quivering stomach while his eyes became captivated by what he saw between her lush thighs. Parting her, he was treated to the pinkest pink he'd ever seen, and an extended clit that begged to be sucked.

He showed no mercy.

Even after bringing her to orgasm twice, he was still enthralled with her glistening pussy, which tasted better than anything he could remember. He crept upward, noting her slick-sheened body and her satisfied gaze.

"Hard or soft?"

She made a mewling sound which pinched his heart. She pushed at his chest to switch positions as she straddled him. From his position, she was even more glorious, with her hair flying all over and her breasts teasing him.

She ground her lower half onto him, eliciting a moan. Putting both hands behind her, he felt Marie grab his cock, putting pressure on it then pumping it with such precision that he almost came.

"Hard." She laughed, twirling the pre-cum over his dick's bulbous head. "I want everything hard."

Anthony picked up a condom. "Would you mind?"

He knew she wasn't shy, and her next move cemented that for him, making him contemplate ways they could meet again. Marie took the condom, ripping the wrapper and then sliding backward. On her way down, she licked his nipples; tongued the quarter-sized, darker brown circle around them; and tenderly bit his side before blowing a cool breath fanning his happy trail. She squeezed the air out of the tip of the condom, taking him in her hand then sliding it down.

She used her teeth, seductively rolling it to the base of his impressive cock. It was then he realized she had no gag reflex and almost shot his load prematurely.

"Fuck, woman."

She slid up, brushing her breasts against his chest, before positioning herself on top of him. "You like that?"

Lips opened, but before he could deliver a witty retort, she'd impaled herself on him, cutting off all thoughts as a rush of wind forced its way from his lungs.

"God fucking damn." His hands planted themselves onto her tantalizing hips.

She ran her fingers up to her breasts, palming them. "Yeah?"

She moved up, then slowly back down. Groaning, he hoped she never stopped.

She swiveled then swerved then started her tortuous moves over again.

Not being able to take anymore, he gripped her upper thighs, switching positions effortlessly.

"Fuck me, Anthony."

He did.

He fed her his dick the way she'd requested, going as deep as humanly possible inside her addictive warmth.

The wrought iron headboard banged against the wooden structure. Their combined moans grew louder as their bodies clashed into each other. Strong arms held up her muscled leg. Her jiggling breasts were sucked so hard that passion marks quickly appeared. Their sweaty bodies were unbridled in their demands—just the way they both enjoyed.

"That's it." She moaned; lower lip caught between her teeth. "That's it right there." She slapped his ass, pulling him farther into her.

He flipped them onto their sides, hands clasped together, staring into each other's eyes. He pushed forward, and she clenched her muscles trying to delay the inevitable just when he felt the tightening coil in his lower stomach.

Finding the lost yin to the missing yang, their body's silent communication and perfected timing was something neither of them had ever experienced. Falling over together was the sweet moment she'd only read about in romance novels, and what he had sworn was made-up bullshit.

They drifted to sleep, each lost in their own thoughts.

＊＊＊＊＊

The temperature had cooled.

A tremor ran over his body.

Anthony smiled, reminiscing about the reason for his nakedness.

Then he felt the unmistakable muzzle of a gun. Prying his eyes open, he met fierce silver ones.

"Glad you decided to wake up, Edward Cullen."

_How the hell could she know my real name_ he silently panicked.

He wasn't one to make others see him sweat, so he asked, "Mind telling me what you think you're doing, Marie?" His voice was like steel.

He tried to think of a way out of the situation. He'd been a stupid shit to have fallen asleep beside someone he didn't know. _I must be getting soft in my old age_ he mentally berated himself.

She pressed the gun firmly between his eyes. "Actually, it's Bella." Her eyes dropped to his tattoo. "Bella Carlucci."

His eyebrows rose, bunching the skin between in confusion. "Am I fucking missing something here?"

He saw that she was fully dressed in black. His gaze darted around the sparse room, looking for something he could use as a weapon.

She made a tsking sound and drew his attention back toward her. "Seems my half-brother wanted my mother and me dead, so he sent his ace," Sarcasm and acid dripped from the last word, "who botched the damn job."

He wiggled, but she tightened her legs around him. _For a woman, she had the strength of a man_ he wordlessly conceded.

"I've never failed a fucking assignment."

He figured there was no need to continue pretending to be "tourist guide" Anthony.

"You really don't remember, do you?" She shook her head. "It took me six damn months to find you. I had to sleep with all of Carlucci's nasty capos before I got to the person that had the right information."

"Jasper!" The name spat from his lips laced with pain.

"You're like fucking oil. Always slipping through my god damned fingers and sprinting away from places like some jungle animal." Her shoulders shook at her own joke. "But, you know you messed up, right?" Her lips curled derisively. "You should have never told Jasper shit! Hiding 101: keep on running." Bella shook her head. "Why'd you do it, Cullen? Why'd you off an unarmed, pregnant woman and then try to murder a teenager?"

"That was you ten years ago?" The shroud lifted from Edward's eyes as the night that changed his life flashed before him. "Oh, hell, I never knew." He blew out a breath, hoping she'd believe him. "I got some fucked up information."

Leaning her head to the side, Bella wondered aloud, "Fucked up. How?"

He remembered the sworn oath he took to protect family secrets and shut his trap. Her head lowered to his neck; diverting him. The sharp, stinging pain of teeth sinking into his flesh brought a howl of pain from his lips and he decided he could at least share why he'd ended up at her house.

"Carlisle, your brother—"

"My half-brother," she reminded him.

He grimaced at the fact that Junior had duped him again. "Yeah, anyway, he said there was an informant working with the District Attorney's office. He gave me an address."

Edward had easily gained entrance inside the unguarded home. The place was small and inviting. Even in the dimmed light, Edward could tell the home thrived under a woman's touch. He walked through the kitchen, and when he'd heard sounds below, he'd put the silencer on his gun and headed toward the basement. Walking down the stairs, he realized he was going to have to rely on instinct because there was no light showing him the way.

He'd gotten to a spot that gave him both cover and the ability to fire without being seen. He saw the tall figure moving around in the shadows and hurriedly fired two, quick succession shots. The thud of a body falling told him he'd gotten his target. It wasn't until he'd walked further into the darkened, tomb-like area that he'd seen the slumped down form was clearly a woman who was about six months pregnant.

Pushing off the mask and removing his glove in horror, he'd dialed a number on his cell.

Junior had immediately asked if the job was done. Edward had screamed at him, wondering why his boss was cackling, knowing he'd sent him to kill a woman with a kid in her belly. The Carluccis, under the reign of Junior's father, had never killed women and children. The call had been cut short because Edward had heard a noise above. He looked for an easy exit and found that he wouldn't fit through any of the basement windows. It was then that Edward realized he'd have to kill his way out.

"I remember coming down the steps with my knife out." Bella looked off to the side yet still had a steady grip on the gun that was now under his chin. "My father gave it to me and told me to use it only in emergencies. When I hit that first step going down the basement, I knew something was wrong."

"I-I just wanted to leave." Edward swallowed. "That night should've never fucking happened."

"I remember being shot in my leg. It burned like a son of a bitch." Bella mirthlessly chuckled.

"I only wanted to leave," he repeated. Sometimes when he replayed that night, he'd often wondered if he could've done something differently. "I'm so damn sorry."

He'd tried to squeeze past her, where she'd dropped on the stairs, but all of a sudden, she'd plunged a knife into his thigh. He'd barely gotten out of there alive. He'd stumbled, sort of landing near her, and it wasn't until he'd pressed his finger into her gunshot wound that her hands fell away from the knife. He'd fought with the knife, un-lodging it, and flinging it near her head.

"You had blond hair then. Had I known it was you at Mountain Top …"

_I would have killed you_ Edward silently concluded, even though it went against one of his highly held tenets. He'd fucked up: he left someone alive who could identify him and his prints on a weapon.

Edward ransacked his memories thinking _but, I could've sworn—_

Bella interrupted, revealing, "I knew it was you. That hair of yours is a dead giveaway."

"Carlucci, huh?"

She shrugged. "That asshole half-brother of mine found out his father had another family." Her eyes filled with hate as she thought of the coward who shared her DNA. "My mother was pregnant with a son, and he didn't want to be challenged about his birthright to the Carlucci's illustrious enterprises."

Her disparaging viewpoint about the Carlucci's businesses wasn't lost on Edward.

"So, how do you see this ending?" He cracked his neck.

The intimidation tactic didn't work, resulting in a belly laugh from Bella.

"With you and that pussy, Junior, dead."

"You'll just have to settle for one out of two, won't you?"

He was glad Marcus had his boss in a safe location.

Bella's smile filled her entire face and looked as if she was in on a well-kept secret. "You think so?"

Edward had enough of the games. If she was going to kill him, she needed to do it already and cut out all the yammering. _Nut up or shut the fuck up was his motto._

"You killed four men to get to me. Why haven't you pulled the trigger yet?" He pushed his lower half upward.

She didn't seem fazed by his move.

He refused to beg the way he'd witnessed so many times during his other kills. They'd all pleaded, cajoled, made promises, gave up secrets—all to stay , in the end, Ace had a job to do and he was remarkably adept at what he did.

She shifted on top of him, and he cursed his body's reaction to her.

"Typical fucking man! Always thinking with your dick," she mocked. "Well, Eddie boy, why are you not dead?" She looked as if she was seriously thinking hard about her rhetorical question; a mind-fuck ploy he'd used many times. "I'm going to give you the  
opportunity you never gave my mother."

Gun still trained on him, she cautiously backed away. Edward lay unbound on the bed.

"Are you shitting me?"

Bella motioned with the gun for him to stand and get dressed. Once he'd had his clothing back on, she put the safety, kicking it to the farthest corner.

"The first person that gets to that …" She let the meaning of the sentence hang in the atmosphere between them.

Edward looked around then back at her as if she was crazy. "I'm not fighting a woman." He walked toward her intimidatingly.

"You already killed one …" Bella trailed, stepping closer to him before punching him unexpectedly.

Edward would never admit that she'd caught him off guard. He used to be in prime shape. He wasn't a slouch, but the conditioning and training he'd always done had slowed tremendously since his move to St. Thomas.

He backed up, throwing his hand up as Ace urged to be let out from his fighting cage sooner than later.

"I said I didn't know, god damn it!" He clenched and unclenched his fists, looking around the room again.

Bella seized the moment. She'd stooped, pulling the rug out from under his feet. He landed flat on his back and she jumped on top of him throwing solid punches toward his face.

For a while, he took the beating before he growled and right-hooked her in the stomach.

"Uggh." The wind was knocked out of her.

They tussled on the ground. Edward grunted in pain at Bella's well-timed jabs, perfectly executed crossovers, and couldn't duck out of the way when she executed a straight punch to his throat.

He gave as good as he got.

But, was still at a disadvantage.

Bella had waited ten years for her moment. She'd trained daily for her final meeting with Carlucci's hit man—their Ace.

Somehow, they both managed to stand to their feet.

She had several cracked ribs and was sore from the kicks he'd given to her kidneys, and was black and blue around her neck.

His face was severely bruised, and one eye was swollen shut. Edward knew he had several broken bones from the painful roundhouse kicks she'd delivered.

"Come on, Ace. Is that all you have, you bitch?"

Edward knew it was a risky move, but he had to take a chance. He wasn't going to last much longer. His vision was already weakened, having to rely on one functioning eye. He weighed the odds, realizing he had a single move left.

If he took it, he'd board his plane back to New York.

If he didn't, he'd be six feet under.

He charged, headlong, aiming for Bella's mid-section. He watched, without glee, as she flew in the air and her back hit the wall with a thundering sound. Her head lolled to the side as she slithered down to the floor.

He limped to where she'd kicked the gun, and with a heavy heart picked it up. He knew if he allowed her to live a second time, she'd never stop.

She would hunt him into perpetuity.

That's the thing about revenge. It's all that's thought about until it's been assuaged.

Junior had used him to do his dirty work, but in the end, Edward had pulled the trigger … twice, maiming a young girl, but killing her mother and her unborn brother.

Walking back to where Bella was, he felt no victory.

This had to be done.

Gingerly, he raised the gun, and was pissed that his hand was shaking like a shivering leaf. Lowering the weapon, he gave himself a pep talk before getting his target back in sight.

_P-taff_.

The sound of a single shot was heard.

Edward looked for an entrance wound on Bella, but none could be seen.

The warmth that seeped from his side had him looking down. The reddened-viscous liquid blotting his shirt stunned him, and his head swung quickly toward the opened door. The rapid loss of blood dropped him to his knees as recognition took hold when another shot was delivered—between his eyes.

The gunman then entered the room, surveyed the situation, and fired a single bullet into Bella's forehead, using the same precision he had recently used to kill Junior Carlucci.

Before reaching into the pocket of his tweed jacket, Marcus Falcone smiled.

_It was all carried out perfectly,_ he thought, pulling a cigar from his breast pocket as he walked out the door and headed back to New York.

**THE END.**

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